


Wake Me Up

by Roxxy



Category: Metallica
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Dream Sex, Drug Use, Hangover, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Lust, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roxxy/pseuds/Roxxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows he should be pissed at the fact that he’s gonna go straight into his room, jerk off in the shower, lay under the covers and toss for half an hour before he gives in and jerks off again. He should be fuckin’ outraged at the fact that he’s gonna wake up at 4am, drenched in sweat and lying in his own drying semen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake Me Up

**Author's Note:**

> Actually my first attempt at writing James/Jason. And I gotta say, I enjoyed it. Which means more might come in the future. But hey--enough rambling. The story is set in the TBA era. Enjoy :)

It doesn't hurt. He can't lie. It breaks him down, tantalizes him, but it doesn’t bring pain. Only anticipation and unbearable arousal.

The hand in his hair, forcing his cheek into the pillow, where the pillowcase vacuums itself to his nose with the urgency of his inhales.

The heat of the body above him, damp and enveloping everything.

The scratch of the moustache. The ridiculous facial hair that only teases, even when it leaves red marks on his pale skin.

The slide of the damp, hard cock down the small of his back.

The clench of the sheets in his fists. The feeling of hands, stretching him and gripping him hard enough to leave bruises.

The _burn_. The sensation of being penetrated while in such a vulnerable position. The knowledge that with him, every position is vulnerable.

The feeling of being held down and fucked until his cries of pleasure turn into sobs and he is dizzy and incoherent.

The emptiness in his belly after he wakes up in a pool of his own come, alone and aching.

It gets more and more ridiculous as the time passes, because during the day, he simply can't see it happening. If nothing, he should be the one dominating - at least in his own goddamn fantasies - not the one taking it and pleading for more.

He tries to purge it. He has means, after all. And so many women are more than happy to hop in bed with a member of the biggest fuckin' metal band in the world. Yeah, fuck it. In the world.

And so what if they're all blonde? They're hot, that's all that matters. And so what if he's a little rough? They love it. And he gets the satisfaction of _purging_.

And it helps, if only temporarily. Small pleasures and all that. But if he happens to catch a whiff of James's cologne, he knows he's screwed for the night.

“Jason!”

He jerks at the growl and raises his head, cheeks burning. His fingers sweat around the Walkman he's holding in his lap. The headphones are also there somewhere, probably in the toilet or somewhere in his bag.

“Yeah?”

“I asked, do you want any more pancakes?”

James doesn't look amused, and the two halves of Jason's mind delve into debating whether it should activate his pride or his cock.

Jason glances at the food on the table and shakes his head.

“No.”

“Then stop fuckin’ daydreaming and get to the bus. We're already behind schedule, anyway.”

 _Since when did you turn into Lars_ , Jason wants to ask, but his tongue is tied and there's a bulge under his Walkman that diverts his blood away from cognitive functions.

He swallows and scans the vacant restaurant, illuminated by soft morning sun. Holding the gadgets to his lap, he gets up just as James sits down to finish the pancakes.

And by all means, it’s a great day. The bus ride to the next town is fairly brief, the gig is charged and the audience is savage. It’s the time afterwards – the time most musicians value highly – that he dreads.

He would be grateful – so, so grateful – if alcohol could help. Any, he doesn’t care which type. Rectified spirit would be fine with him if he could just _once_ get it out of his mind. But it doesn’t help.

So he turns to sticks. Tried and tested. Pot used to make him philosophical, but nowadays, it merely makes him function like a normal human being. Well, as normal as possible.

And he doesn’t see the hunched singer growling into his microphone. He doesn’t see the toss of his dirty blond strands, already soaked in sweat. He doesn’t see the clench of his butt, or his lean thighs, or the eyes that glow with vibrancy and contained rage.

He _feels_ it. He feels every fuckin’ movement that James makes as if they were one. He’s stupidly, absurdly high, and the urge in his body is not squished – it's amplified.

He’s practically mute after the gig. His brain is slowly evaporating through his skull and he is sweating like a pig. James needles him, in his usual routine. He gets particularly inspired after a show. Ironically, that’s when Jason finds him most attractive.

But he doesn’t respond to his provocations or jokes. He is pissed. Or, as pissed as a stoned pushover can be. He _knows_ he should be pissed, especially at the fact that not even weed is working. Catch 22, or something. He also knows he should be pissed at the fact that he’s gonna go straight into his room, jerk off in the shower, lay under the covers and toss for half an hour before he gives in and jerks off again. He should be fuckin’ outraged at the fact that he’s gonna wake up at 4am, drenched in sweat and lying in his own drying semen.

He hasn’t figured out what he hates more; doing it and feeling like a disgusting loser, or not doing it and feeling like a constipated pig the entire following day.

But he doesn’t have to think about it. He’s high. That’s sourly comforting.

Two hours later, his back is scratching against the damp sheets as he writhes and arches and squeezes himself until his torn groan rings throughout the sultry room.

Lips are on his neck, gently following the roughness of that facial hair.

Two hands part his legs and he bends them at the knees, exposing his sensitive thighs to the cooler air. Moan bubbles out of him as he is dragged by the hips and pressed up to a firm, pulsing erection. There’s a voice in his ear, murmuring something, but he never remembers the words in the morning. He pretends it’s something nice; something rough, needy and in character.

There's even a bit of foreplay in his dream. Some crude toss-backs and lascivious baits. But it's not what he remembers most.

He shudders as a hand slicks him up, and it feels so giddy and arousing that he wants to come right then and there. His cock is weeping on his stomach, and he wants to grab it, but he can’t.

He feels hair, long and damp, on his neck and cheek, and he smells whiskey breath. He squirms, charged and ready, and so fuckin’ grateful for the vividness of the fantasy. He will have enough time to feel pathetic in the morning.

He gasps at the first breach, eager and shrinking away at the same time. His legs are hooked around strong shoulders and the slide of that erection makes him burn and writhe, as much as he can in his position. The angle hits him dead-on, and he shudders again, a soundless cry leaving his lips.

He doesn’t get to adjust because the pace is relentless. It burns, so good, and he doesn’t want it to stop. It’s always a blur; he can’t remember the specifics once he wakes up. He only remembers the feeling of being full and stretched and open. The reluctant trust with which he gives himself, and the wild possession with which he is taken.

He never sees the eyes, and that's the one thing he wishes he could change. But even semi-lucid dreams are more than enough to earn his gratitude.

He wants to grab, to bite and scratch, to give proper feedback, but his arms are made of lead, and he struggles to concentrate and move them. He yelps when that cock spears his prostate and brings him even closer to the brink. He clutches at those shoulders, but the sweat makes his hands slip and slide off. He moans and grabs the tight, lean flesh once more.

He can smell him. Smell that scent that’s around every night, during and after a gig. Instincts take over and he opens his mouth and buries his teeth into the source of that scent – his neck. The growl at his ear makes pride and satisfaction surge through his veins.

He comes, hard and long, and probably loud enough for the entire floor. Sobs of pure pleasure leave his chest and soon enough, that cock leaves him as well. There’s heat and sweat and breathless words in his ear, and before he can grab, do anything, it vanishes – all of it – and he is alone once again.

In the morning, he will feel grateful for dozing off so fast and not having to deal with the emptiness of the room, and the one in his chest.

 

***

 

“Can you... tone that down?”

Kirk's laughter disperses.

“Tone what down?”

Jason swallows and twirls the fork in his hand.

“Giggling,” he murmurs reluctantly, already feeling bad for ruining everyone else's day besides his own.

A hand lands on his shoulder.

“You okay?”

Jason nods, still squinting at his plate. He hasn't been able to look up so far, and he won’t; not when James is sitting across from him, munching a thick, juicy stake. On a good day, perhaps he could, despite the embarrassing images of his dream unravelling in his mind like they are on a reel. But not today.

The mental note he keeps making engraves itself in his mind: do not mix weed and Jose. Just… do not.

His entire body is sore and his head is pulsing with the intensity of a disco club on a Saturday night. He knows he's making empty promises to himself, but he makes them nonetheless.

“Spill it,” Lars says. He's curled up on his chair, effectively ignoring the table as he pops fries into his mouth from a plate stuck between his chest and knees. "Which one is it? The redhead? Or the tall chick from Wyoming?" He munches, then nudges James. “Ohh, I know—that feisty one who got him to sign her thigh. Am I right, Jason?”

“I'm just hungover, man,” he says.

“Riiiight.” Lars elbows an unresponsive James and makes a funny face that Jason's peripheral vision unfortunately catches.

“It's okay, Jase. We'll be a bit quieter. Right, guys?” Kirk glances around, getting practically no reaction.

The fork scrapes against the plate and Jason winces, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears. He timidly cuts off a chunk of his fried egg, grateful for the current lack of obtrusive sounds. All he can hear is chewing, and that's a relief.

“You've become alcohol intolerant, Newsted.” James says eventually, and if Jason had the strength, he could find layers upon layers of teasing and sarcasm in that statement.

But he doesn't. So he just spears his cornbread, rolls it around in the spilled yolk and pops the bite into his mouth.

James continues chewing.

“You should see someone about that if you wanna be in a fuckin' metal band.”

Jason snorts and looks up by instinct. There's a smug look on James's face, but there's also something else that makes Jason choke on his food.

“Hey—you okay?” Kirk slaps his shoulder lightly, but Jason can't respond. His heart has leapt up into his throat and is fighting for space with the cornbread. He coughs, eyes watering, and Kirk straightens up in his seat, already alarmed.

“Take it easy, man—”

Jason slams a fist to his own chest, and manages to push the offending bite down.

James wipes his mouth and stands up, catching the table with his knee and making the cutlery rattle. Jason’s eyes are glued to him, but there’s only one thing he sees.

“You okay?” Kirk asks again.

Coughing and nodding, but still staring at James, Jason tries to reason with himself. Maybe he’s overanalyzing, and maybe his eyes are playing tricks on him and the thing he’s looking at isn’t a purpling bruise on the side of James’s neck.

And he almost believes that – because it’s difficult to think otherwise - until James circles the table and leans on Jason’s chair, making it creak. He almost believes that he’s imagining things until he hears those words.

“You really shouldn't eat that shit when there are so many better things you can use your mouth for.”

Then he’s gone, and Jason is left choking on his own saliva. He promises himself – for the tenth time – that he’ll never mix weed and hard liquor again.

Only this time, he’s convinced of it.


End file.
